


Primal Hunger

by coughsyrup



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Hard vore, Other, Vore, consensual vore, something gross I wrote for me but you can read it if it's your jam too I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24926569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coughsyrup/pseuds/coughsyrup
Summary: Beelzebub keeps asking me in the game if he can eat me and they don't give me an option to agree, so I wrote this instead.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	Primal Hunger

**Author's Note:**

> Some consensual hard vore with Beelzebub as predator and main character as prey. Everything's fine and non-fatal in the end.
> 
> Beelzebub/MC. Un-gendered reader but the body is implied to be AFAB.  
> TWs: graphic hard vore (regenerative, non-fatal, sexualised); very mild self harm. Some body horror. Everything is totally consensual, but it’s still a monster eating ya so y’know.
> 
> Sorry for writing this.

There’s no way to be totally sure that the magic will work - not until it’s too late to go back. The concern that Lucifer shows you when you check with him… Yes, you know it’s a sign that this is a bad idea. It’s a dangerous, terrifying idea. One that thrills you to your very core.

Even now, with rich purple eyes staring down at you with their pupils blown wide with anticipatory hunger… Even now, you consider backing out. And you know you can’t. Not now that Beelzebub knows your plan, knows what you’re trying to do for his sake. For his sake and yours.

Lucifer had told you there was no guarantee it would work. Had told you that he had an obligation to stop you if there was risk to yourself. He’d volunteered to sit in with you and make sure he could pull Beelzebub off of you if things went too far and it looked like there was no turning back. You’d declined, of course. No, with the way that Beelzebub stares down at you and you can see that hint of drool hidden by sharp canines, you’re glad that you declined. You’re not sure you want anyone else to see this.

Honestly, you’re not sure Beelzebub is even listening as you try to explain the logic behind it. The magic that surrounds you in here, the way your soul exists in this strange, cursed world, it should keep you safe. You’ve tried it by yourself, watched your skin knit back together after the sweep of a curious blade. It had hurt, but not quite as much as you think it really ought to. And the healing itself… It’s a strange feeling. It’s warm and it tingles in a way that just bubbles under the skin.

He isn’t listening to you as you show the light, silvery line of a scar that looks months on in healing, the one you’d caused a few hours ago. You explain that it shouldn’t kill you, that the magic should keep you safe. But Beelzebub needs to eat. The famine that plagues him and leaves his stomach perpetually empty - the flesh of a human should fill it, even if it’s just temporarily. Just until next time. Dead meat and processed wheat can never fill that gap, not the way that living flesh can.

He’s not listening to you. The drool builds and you hear his stomach gurgling. It’s deafening, but nothing compared to the roaring in your ears. Nothing compared to your own heartbeat thudding in your chest, loud enough that his eyes flicker to your chest and you see his huge hand move until the palm rests flat upon the swell of it. Every muscle is tensed and you see his knuckles almost white with the effort to hold back, to stop his claws from turning inward and starting to rip. You feel the hard press of the tips of each one through your shirt, threatening to puncture through the fabric and through your skin.

He’s not listening, because you know he can’t. There’s something different in the way his eyes and his pupils are wide. There’s something different in the curl of his lips, the baring of fangs - a warning. It’s primal. It’s feral. It’s terrifying, and you feel the thud of your heartbeat in your chest and between your legs.

“I won’t be able to hold back,” is all he can say, and each word is dragged out slowly through a low growl that vibrates through his hand and against your ribcage. It’s almost a plea for you to stop him, but even as he says it, he pushes forward and you feel the back of your head knock against one of the walls of his bedroom. He’s holding you up with his hand's crushing weight against your chest - which is a blessing, really, because your legs are shaking and they feel too weak to keep holding you up.

You whisper back so quietly that you’re not sure that either of you can hear it. But his eyes stay steady on each little movement of your lips as you murmur your soft comfort to his last remaining doubts.

The tension in his hand builds until you feel the claws push through fabric and then, finally, through your skin. It feels nothing like the blade you’d wielded yourself - his claws feel almost impossibly hot as they puncture the outside layer of your body. It causes you to gasp and you hear the growl in his throat grow louder as a result. Your fear and pain seem to stir that primal reaction with him.

You aren’t expecting him to drop to his knees in front of you, almost reverent in the motion, until you realise what it’s for. His claws drag downwards, the ripping of cotton and skin following the action and causing you to gasp louder, to whimper at the burning sensation of your flesh tearing away from itself. Fabric falls and you realise that this is his impatience to get your shirt away from you, leaving your torso bare and exposed to him over your midriff and lower stomach. You look down and you can see the way your skin desperately starts to try to heal itself, clumping back together in a way that shoots sparks through your nerves, starting in your chest and pooling at the pit of your stomach. You feel yourself squirm, your legs squeezing together to try to relieve some of the pressure. 

You don’t have a chance to analyse it too much because you see that shock of ginger hair moving closer and those purple eyes disappear behind closed lids. You feel cold air move against your stomach as he inhales the scent of your flesh before his jaw opens. A thousand sharp, white fangs are there before you, curved and wicked and dagger-like as they push closer. You can feel the tip of each one against your skin for just a moment too long - and you realise that he’s toying with you. He’s savouring the sensation of finally giving into those base desires, and the thought leaves you with a sense of honour you’re not sure is deserved in this situation. But you can finally give him what he’s craved for hundreds, thousands of years. You can finally fill his hunger.

His jaw starts to close. Faintly, you hear the noise of someone screaming before you even realise that the sound has come from your own throat. The agony of your skin forced to rip open, the blood that starts to spill and the burning of his canines pushing through - it leaves you weaker than ever. His hand comes back up and claws perforate your stomach again. All the immense strength in his arm leaves you pinned against the wall, helpless prey in his grip. 

He pulls back, his heavy gaze dragging over your shaking form. Unconsciously, a pointed tongue comes out lick over the spilled blood on his maw. Slowly, you nod your consent for him to keep going, and you barely have time to finish the motion before he’s pushing forward again. You barely have awareness to acknowledge the heat and wetness pooling between your own thighs as his fangs rip into your stomach again, deeper this time. Blood starts to cascade from the wound as the sickening sound of skin ripping apart fills the room, and you can see the way it smears across his maw, drips down his neck and over his bare chest. As much as the magic protecting your body tries to piece you back together, it’s no match for how ravenously Beelzebub starts to rip and feast on your flesh. You can hear him chew, hear the meat gulped down his throat and the groans of bliss that fall from his blood filled throat.

Your vision starts to blur and you begin to feel faint as he pushes deeper, his claws coming down to rip your stomach open wider to aid his exploration of your body. He starts to pull out some long, winding organ that you have to imagine must be your intestines, and you feel your face pale even as you feel that throbbing between your legs. He tears into the offal loudly, ripping chunks away and gulping them down with feral hunger. You can only hope that the magic extends to organs. You didn’t check that with Lucifer. In hindsight, you probably should have.

It’s getting harder to see what Beelzebub is doing now, harder to watch and analyse. You can see his hands coming to dig out the rest of your intestines, to tug and pull them out of you until he can find the prize he’s been looking for. It’s some rich brown organ that’s covered in all of the blood that’s still flooding out of you, and you think it might be your liver. It’s hard to be sure when your vision’s starting to swim in and out of blackness. You only have time to see him raise the meat to his lips, to see him inhale deeply and groan with pleasure as he sinks his canines into it with juice spilling down from his maw. As he swallows it down, you feel your eyes involuntarily close and you feel your body start to slip down against the wall, his claws rending up through you as your body sinks down against them.

\---

The next thing you’re aware of is that aching, bubbling, tingling feeling in your stomach as your flesh continues to rebuild itself from scratch. You’re dizzy as you open your eyes again, not expecting to see the deep orange sheets around you. Beelzebub’s sheets. You’re in his bed, and you can see his sleeping form a few feet away from you, half fallen off of a make-shift camping bed on the floor. He stirs as you try and fail to sit up, causing you to let out a quiet noise of pain.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he murmurs quietly to you, kneeling next to you with his towering height enough that he’s still eye level with you even like this. “How are you feeling?” 

You look down at your gnarled flesh, pulsating and squirming against itself as the skin continues to heal around regenerating organs beneath it. There’s no trace of the blood that you know had soaked you before, and you assume that the brothers must have cleaned you up after your ordeal as well as placing you into this bed to heal. You’re glad that you’re beneath Beelzebub’s sheets. They smell like him, and it causes your weak and faint smile to grow a little wider.


End file.
